Читать книгу The Wedding Party And Holiday Escapes Ultimate Collection - Кейт Хьюит, Aimee Carson - Страница 96

CHAPTER THREE

LIANA STUDIED SANDRO’S face and wondered what he was thinking. Her husband-to-be was, so far, an unsettling enigma. She didn’t understand why everything she did, from being polite to trying to eat mussels without splattering herself with butter, seemed to irritate him, but she knew it did. She saw the way his silvery eyes darkened to storm-grey, his mobile mouth tightening into a firm line.

So he didn’t want to marry her. That undeniable truth lodged inside her like a cold, hard stone. She hadn’t expected that, but could she really be surprised? He’d spent fifteen years escaping his royal duty. Just because he’d decided finally to honour his commitments didn’t mean, as he’d admitted himself, that he relished the prospect.

And yet it was hard not to take his annoyance personally. Not to let it hurt—which was foolish, because this marriage wasn’t personal. She didn’t want his love or even his affection, but she had, she realised, hoped for agreement. Understanding.

A footman came in and cleared their plates, and Liana was glad to see the last of the mussels. She felt resentment stir inside her at the memory of Sandro’s mocking smile. He’d enjoyed seeing her discomfited, would have probably laughed aloud if she’d dropped a mussel in her lap or sent it spinning across the table.

Perhaps she should have dived in and smeared her face and fingers with butter; perhaps he would have liked her better then. But a lifetime of careful, quiet choices had kept her from making a mess of anything, even a plate of mussels. She couldn’t change now, not even over something so trivial.

The footman laid their plates down, a main course of lamb garnished with fresh mint.

‘At least this shouldn’t present you with too much trouble,’ Sandro said softly as the door clicked shut. Liana glanced up at him.

She felt irritation flare once more, surprising her, because she usually didn’t let herself feel irritated or angry...or anything. Yet this man called feelings up from deep within her, and she didn’t even know why or how. She definitely didn’t like it. ‘You seem to enjoy amusing yourself at my expense.’

‘I meant only to tease,’ he said quietly. ‘I apologise if I’ve offended you. But you are so very perfect, Lady Liana—and I’d like to see you a little less so.’

Perfect? If only he knew the truth. ‘No one is perfect.’

‘You come close.’

‘That is not, I believe, a compliment.’

His lips twitched, drawing her attention to them. He had such sculpted lips, almost as if they belonged on a statue. She yanked her gaze upwards, but his eyes were no better. Silvery grey and glinting with amusement.

She felt as if a fist had taken hold of her heart, plunged into her belly. Everything quivered, and the sensation was not particularly pleasant. Or perhaps it was too pleasant; she felt that same thrill of fascination that had taken hold of her when she’d first met him.

‘I would like to see you,’ Sandro said, his voice lowering to a husky murmur, ‘with your hair cascading over your shoulders. Your lips rosy and parted, your face flushed.’

And as if he could command it by royal decree, she felt herself begin to blush. The image he painted was so suggestive. And it made that fist inside her squeeze her heart once more, made awareness tauten muscles she’d never even known she had.

‘Why do you wish to see me like that?’ she asked, relieved her voice sounded as calm as always. Almost.

‘Because I think you would look even more beautiful then than you already are. You’d look warm and real and alive.’

She drew back, strangely hurt by his words. ‘I am quite real already. And alive, thank you very much.’

Sandro’s gaze swept over her, assessing, knowing. ‘You remind me of a statue.’

A statue? A statue was cold and lifeless, without blood or bone, thought or feeling. And he thought that was what she was?

Wasn’t it what she’d been for the past twenty years? The thought was like a hammer blow to the heart. She blinked, tried to keep her face expressionless. Blank, just like the statue he accused her of being. ‘Are you trying to be offensive?’ she answered, striving to keep her voice mild and not quite managing it.

His honesty shouldn’t hurt her, she knew. There was certainly truth in it, and yet... She didn’t want to be a statue. Not to this man.

A thought that alarmed her more than anything else.

‘Not trying, no,’ Sandro answered. ‘I suppose it comes naturally.’

‘I suppose it does.’

He shook his head slowly. ‘Do you ever lose your temper? Shout? Curse?’

‘Would you prefer to be marrying a shrew?’ she answered evenly and his mouth quirked in a small smile.

‘Does anything make you angry?’ he asked, and before she could think better of it, she snapped, ‘Right now, you do.’

He laughed, a rich chuckle of amusement, the sound spreading over her like chocolate, warming her in a way she didn’t even understand. This man was frustrating and even hurting her and yet...

She liked his laugh.

‘I am glad for it,’ he told her. ‘Anger is better than indifference.’

‘I have never said I was indifferent.’

‘You have shown it in everything you’ve said or done,’ Sandro replied. ‘Almost.’

‘Almost?’

‘You are not quite,’ he told her in that murmur of a voice, ‘as indifferent as you’d like me to believe—or even to believe yourself.’

She felt her breath bottle in her lungs, catch in her throat. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Your Highness.’

‘Don’t you?’ He leaned forward, his eyes glinting silver in the candlelight. ‘And must I remind you yet again that you are to call me Sandro?’

She felt her blush deepen, every nerve and sinew and sense so agonisingly aware. Feeling this much hurt. She was angry and scared and, most of all, she wanted him...just as he knew she did. ‘I am not inclined,’ she told him, her voice shaking, ‘to call you by your first name just now, Your Highness.’

‘I wonder, under what circumstances would you call me Sandro?’

Her nails dug into her palms. ‘I cannot think of any at the moment.’

Sandro’s silvery gaze swept over her in lingering assessment. ‘I can think of one or two,’ he answered lazily, and everything in her lurched at the sudden predatory intentness in his gaze. She felt her heart beat hard in response, her palms go cold and her mouth dry. ‘Yes, definitely, one or two,’ he murmured, and, throwing his napkin on the table, he rose from the chair.

* * *

She looked, Sandro thought, like a trapped rabbit, although perhaps not quite so frightened a creature. Even in her obvious and wary surprise she clung to her control, to her coldness. He had a fierce urge to strip it away from her and see what lay beneath it. An urge he intended to act on now.

Her eyes had widened and she gazed at him unblinkingly, her hands frozen over her plate, the knife and fork clenched between her slender, white-knuckled fingers.

Sandro moved towards her chair with a loose-limbed, predatory intent; he was acting on instinct now, wanting—needing—to strip away her cold haughtiness, chip away at that damned ice until it shattered all around them. She would call him Sandro. She would melt in his arms.

Gently, yet with firm purpose, he uncurled her clenched fingers from around her cutlery, and the knife and fork clattered onto her plate. She didn’t resist. Her violet gaze was still fastened on him, her lips slightly parted. Her pulse thundered under his thumb as he took her by the wrist and drew her from the chair to stand before him.

Still she didn’t resist, not even as he moved closer to her, nudging his thigh in between her own legs as he lifted his hands to frame her face.

Her skin was cool and unbearably soft, and he brushed his thumb over the fullness of her parted lips, heard her tiny, indrawn grasp, and smiled. He rested his thumb on the soft pad of her lower lip before he slid his hands down to her bare shoulders, her skin like silk under his palms.

He gazed into her eyes, the colour of a bruise, framed by moon-coloured lashes, wide and waiting. Then he bent his head and brushed his mouth across hers, a first kiss that was soft and questioning, and yet she gave no answer.

She remained utterly still, her lips unmoving under his, her hands clenched by her sides. The only movement was the hard beating of her heart that he could feel from where he stood, and Sandro’s determination to make her respond crystallised inside him, diamond hard. He deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue into her luscious mouth, the question turning into a demand.

For a woman who was so coldly determined, her mouth tasted incredibly warm and sweet. He wanted more, any sense of purpose be damned, and as he explored the contours of her mouth with his tongue he moved his hands from her shoulders down the silk of her dress to cup the surprising fullness of her breasts. They fitted his hands perfectly, and he brushed his thumbs lightly over the taut peaks. Still she didn’t move.

She was like the statue he’d accused her of being, frozen into place, rigid and unyielding. A shaft of both sexual and emotional frustration blazed through him. He wanted—needed—her to respond. Physically. Emotionally. He needed something from her, something real and alive, and he would do whatever it took to get it.

Sandro tore his mouth from hers and kissed his way along her jawline, revelling in the silkiness of her skin even as a furious determination took hold of him once more.

Yet as his mouth hovered over the sweet hollow where her jaw met her throat he hesitated, unwilling to continue when she was so unresponsive despite the insistence pulsing through him. He had never forced a woman, not for so much as a kiss, and he wasn’t about to start now. Not with his bride. Submission, he thought grimly, was not the same as acceptance. As want.

Then she let out a little gasping shudder and her hand, as if of its own accord, clasped his arm, her nails digging into his skin as she pulled him infinitesimally closer. She tilted her head back just a little to allow him greater access to her throat, her breasts, and triumph surged through him. She wanted this. Him.

He moved lower, kissing his way to the V between her breasts where the diamond-and-pearl pendant nestled. He lifted the jewel and licked the warm skin underneath, tasted salt on his tongue and heard her gasp again, her knees buckling as she sat down hard on the table amidst the detritus of their dinner.

Triumph mixed with pure lust and he fastened his hands on her hips, sliding them down to her thighs so he could spread her legs wider. He stood between them, the silken folds of her dress whispering around him as he kissed her like a starving man feasting at a banquet.

He felt her shy response, her tongue touching his before darting away again, and he was utterly enflamed. He slid the straps of her dress from her shoulders, freeing her breasts from their silken prison.

She wore no bra, and desire ripped through him at the sight of her, her head thrown back, her breath coming in gasps as she surrendered herself to his touch, her face flushed and rosy, her lips parted, her body so wonderfully open to him. This was how he’d wanted to see her. He bent his head, kissing his way down her throat, his hand cupping her bared breast—

And then the door opened and a waitress gasped an apology before closing it again quickly, but the moment, Sandro knew, had broken. Shattered into shock and awkwardness and regret.

Liana wrenched herself from his grasp, holding her dress up to her bare front, her lips swollen, her eyes huge and dazed as she stared at him.

He stared back in both challenge and desire, because as much as she might want to deny what had just happened between them, her response had said otherwise. Her response had told him she really was alive and warm and real beneath all that ice, and he was glad.

‘Don’t—’ she finally managed, the single word choked, and Sandro arched an eyebrow.

‘It’s a little late for that. But obviously, I’ve stopped.’

‘You shouldn’t have—’

‘Stopped?’

‘Started—’

‘And why not? We are to be married, aren’t we?’

She just shook her head, fumbling as she attempted to slide her arms back into the dress, but she couldn’t manage it without ripping the fragile fabric. Sandro came to stand behind her, unzipping the back with one quick tug.

‘Don’t touch me—’

‘I’m helping you dress,’ he answered shortly. ‘You can’t get your arms through the straps otherwise.’

Wordlessly she slid her arms through the straps, and he felt her tremble as he zipped her back up, barely resisting the urge to press his lips to the bared nape of her neck and feel her respond to him again.

Her hair had come undone a bit, a few tousled curls lying against her neck. The back of her dress, he saw, was crumpled and stained from where she’d sat on the table. Just remembering made hot, hard desire surge through him again. She might, for the sake of pride or modesty, play the ice maiden now, but he knew better. He wanted to make her melt again, even as he watched her return to her cold composure, assembling it like armour.

‘Thank you,’ she muttered and stepped quickly away from him.

‘You’re welcome.’ He surveyed her, noticing the faint pink to her cheeks, the swollen rosiness of her mouth. She would not look at him. ‘I’m afraid our meal is quite ruined.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

He couldn’t resist quipping, ‘Not for food, perhaps.’

‘Don’t.’ She dragged her gaze to his, and he was surprised—and slightly discomfited—to see not simple embarrassment in her stormy gaze, but a tortured recrimination that ate at the satisfaction he’d felt at her physical response. He’d seduced her quite ruthlessly, he knew. His kisses and caresses had been a calculated attack against her senses. Her coldness.

But she had responded. That had been real. Even if she regretted it now.

He folded his arms. ‘Our marriage might be one of convenience, Liana, but that doesn’t mean we can’t—or shouldn’t—desire one another. Frankly I find it a relief.’ She shook her head wordlessly, and a different kind of frustration spiked through him. ‘What do you see our marriage looking like, then? I need an heir—’

‘I know that.’ She lifted her hands to her hair, fussing with some of the diamond-tipped pins. A few, he saw, had fallen to the floor and silently he bent to scoop them up and then handed them to her. She still wouldn’t look at him, just shoved pins into the tangled mass of silvery hair that he now realised was really quite a remarkable colour. Quite beautiful.

‘Are you a virgin?’ he asked abruptly, and her startled gaze finally met his. She looked almost affronted.

‘Of course I am.’

‘Of course? You’re twenty-eight years old. I’d hardly expect, at that age, for you to save yourself for marriage.’

Colour deepened in her cheeks. ‘Well, I did. I’m sorry if that is yet another disappointment for you.’ She didn’t sound sorry at all, and he almost smiled.

‘Hardly a disappointment.’ Her response to him hadn’t been disappointing at all. ‘But I can understand why you might feel awkward or afraid about what happened between—’

‘I’m not afraid.’ Her lips tightened and her eyes flashed. She dropped her hands from her hair and busied herself with straightening her rather ruined dress.

‘What, then?’ Sandro asked quietly.

Her hands shook briefly before she stilled them, mindlessly smoothing the crumpled silk of her dress. ‘I simply wasn’t... This isn’t...’ She took a breath. ‘I wasn’t expecting this.’

‘It should be a happy surprise, then,’ Sandro answered. ‘At least we desire each other.’ She shook her head, the movement violent. ‘I still fail to see the problem.’

She drew a breath into her lungs, pressed her hands against her still crumpled dress. ‘This marriage was—is—meant to be convenient.’

‘Not that convenient,’ Sandro answered sharply. ‘We were always going to consummate it.’

‘I know that!’ She took another breath; her cheeks were now bright pink. ‘I simply don’t... I don’t want to feel...’ She broke off, misery swamping her eyes, her whole body. Sandro had the sudden urge to comfort her, to offer her a hug of affection rather than the calculated caress of moments before.

What on earth was causing her such torment?

* * *

Liana felt as if Sandro had taken a hammer to her heart, to her very self, with that kiss. She’d very nearly shattered into a million pieces, and it was only by sheer strength of will that she’d kept herself together.

She’d never been touched like that before, never felt such an overwhelming, aching need for even more. More touches, more kisses, more of Sandro. It had called to a craving inside her she hadn’t even known she had. Didn’t want.

Because if she opened herself up to wanting anything from Sandro—even that—she’d open herself up to pain. To disappointment. To feeling, and she’d cut herself off from all of it for too long to want it now. To risk the fragile security she’d built around her heart, her self.

The point of this marriage, she thought helplessly, was that it wouldn’t demand such things of her. It would be safe.

Yet nothing felt safe now. And how could she explain any of it to Sandro without sounding as if she was a freak? A frigid freak?

I’m sorry, Sandro, but I have no desire to enjoy sex with you.

She sounded ridiculous even to herself.

‘What is it you don’t want to feel, Liana?’ he asked and she just stared at him.

This. Him. All of it. What could she tell him? He was clearly waiting for an answer. ‘I...I don’t want to desire you,’ she said, and watched his eyebrows raise, his mouth thin.

‘And why is that?’

Because it scares me. You scare me. She’d sound like such a pathetic little mouse, and maybe she was, but she didn’t want him knowing it. Knowing how weak and frightened she was, when she’d been trying to seem strong and secure and safe.

Clearly it was nothing more than a facade.

Sandro was still staring at her, his expression narrowed and assessing. He probably couldn’t imagine why any woman wouldn’t desire him, wouldn’t want to desire him. She’d read enough gossip websites and trashy tabloids to know Sandro Diomedi, whether he was king of Maldinia or IT billionaire, had plenty of women falling at his feet.

She didn’t want to be one of them.

Oh, she’d always known she’d have to do her duty in bed as well as out of it. She might be inexperienced, but she understood that much.

She also knew most people didn’t think of it as a duty. She’d read enough novels, seen enough romantic movies to know many people—most people—found the physical side of things to be quite pleasurable.

As she just had.

She felt her face heat once more as she remembered how shameless she had been. How good Sandro’s mouth had felt on hers, his hands on her body, waking up every deadened nerve and sense inside her—

She looked away from him now, willing the memories to recede. She didn’t want to wake up. Not like that.

‘Liana?’ he prompted, and she searched for an answer, something believable. Something that would hurt him, as she’d been hurt first by his derision and incredulity, and then by his desire. A Sandro who reached her with his kiss and caress was far more frightening than one who merely offended her with his scorn.

‘Because I don’t respect you,’ she said, and she felt the electric jolt of shock go through him as if they were connected by a wire.

‘Don’t respect?’ He looked shocked, almost winded, and Liana felt a vicious stab of petty satisfaction. He’d shaken up everything inside her, her sense of security and even her sense of self. Let him be the one to look and feel shaken.

Then his expression veiled and he pursed his lips. ‘Why don’t you respect me?’

‘You’ve shirked your duty for fifteen years, and you need to ask that?’

Colour touched his cheekbones, and she knew she’d touched a nerve, one she hadn’t even considered before. But there was truth in what she’d said, what she’d felt. He’d walked away from all he was meant to do, while she’d spent a lifetime trying to earn back her parents’ respect for one moment’s terrible lapse.

‘I didn’t realise you were so concerned about my duty.’

‘I’m not, but then neither are you,’ Liana snapped, amazed at the words—the feeling—coming out of her mouth. Who was this woman who lost her temper, who melted in a man’s arms? She felt like a stranger to herself, and she couldn’t believe how reckless she’d been with this man...in so many ways. How much he made her feel. Physically. Emotionally. So in the space of a single evening she’d said and done things she never had allowed herself to before.

‘You’re very honest,’ Sandro said softly, his voice a dangerous drawl. ‘I appreciate that, if not the sentiment.’

Liana dropped her hand from her mouth, where it had flown at his response. She knew she should apologise, yet somehow she could not find the words, or even the emotion. She wasn’t sorry. This man had humiliated and hurt her, used her to prove some terrible point. She might be appallingly innocent by his standards, but she had enough sense to know he’d kissed her not out of simple and straightforward desire, but to prove something. To exhibit his power over her.

And he had. Oh, he had.

But he wouldn’t now.

Sandro drew himself up, his mouth as thin and sharp as a blade, his eyes no more than silver slits. ‘Clearly we have no more to say to one another.’

‘What—?’ Shock cut off her voice. Twenty years of trying to be an obedient and dutiful daughter, and she’d wrecked it in a matter of moments. Why had she been so impetuous, so stupid?

‘I don’t think we have any need to see each other again either,’ he said, and Liana scrambled to think of something to say, anything to redeem the situation.

‘I realise I spoke in haste—’

‘And in truth.’ He gave an unpleasant smile. ‘Trust me, Lady Liana, I do appreciate your honesty. I have lived with far too much dissembling to do otherwise. However, since this is, as we have both agreed, a marriage of convenience, there is no point in attempting to get to know one another or find even one point of sympathy between us. In this case...’ he paused, eyeing her coldly ‘...we will both do our duty.’

Her stomach hollowed out. ‘You mean—’

‘The wedding will be in six weeks. I’ll see you then.’ And without another word, the king turned on his heel and left her alone in the room, amidst the scattered dishes and ruined meal, her mind spinning.

* * *

Sandro strode from the dining room, fury beating in his blood, his bride-to-be’s words ringing in his ears. You’ve shirked your duty for fifteen years, and you need to ask that?

She’d cut to the heart of it, hadn’t she? The empty heart of him. And even though he knew she was right, it was exactly what he had done, and he hated that she knew. That she’d pointed it out, and that she didn’t respect him because of it. Who was she but a woman intent on selling herself for a crown and a title, never mind how she cloaked it with ideas of duty and selfless charity work? How dared she toss her contempt of him in his face?

And yet still her words cut deep, carved themselves into his soul. They held up a mirror to the selfishness of his heart, the inadequacy he felt now, and he couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the guilt that rushed through him, along with the resentment. He didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be king, didn’t want any of this, and yet it was his by right. By duty. Even if he didn’t deserve it. Even if he felt afraid—terrified—that he could not bear the weight of the crown his father hadn’t even wanted to give him.

He yanked open the door to the study that had once been his father’s and still smelled of his Havana cigars. Sandro opened a window and breathed in the cold night air, tinged even here in the city with the resin of the pines that fringed the capital city. He willed his heart to slow, the remnants of his desire, making his body ache with unfulfilment, to fade.

Briefly he considered whether he should break off his engagement. Find another bride, someone with a little more warmth, a little more heart. Someone who might actually respect him.

And just who would that be, when the truth is and always will be that you walked away from your duty? That you don’t deserve your crown or the respect it commands?

He closed his eyes briefly, pictured his father’s face twisted in derision moments before he’d died.

You think I wanted this? You?

And deluded fool that he insisted on being, he actually had. Had hoped, finally, that his father accepted him. Loved him.

Idiot.

Sandro let out a shuddering breath and turned away from the window. He wouldn’t call off the wedding, wouldn’t try to find a better bride. He was getting about as good a deal as he could hope for.

What kind of woman, after all, agreed to a marriage of convenience? A woman like Liana, like his mother, intent on everything but emotion. And that was fine, really, because he didn’t have the energy for emotion either. He didn’t even think he believed in love anymore, so why bother searching for it? Wanting it?

Except that need seemed hardwired into his system, and had been ever since he’d been a little boy, desperate for his father’s attention, approval, and most of all, love, when all he’d wanted was to use him as a pawn for publicity, so he could pursue his own selfish desires. Desires Sandro had been blinded to until his naive beliefs had been ripped away.

‘Sandro?’

Sandro turned around to see his brother, Leo, standing in the doorway of his study. Six months ago Leo had been first in line to the throne, as he had been ever since their father had disinherited Sandro and put Leo forward. Fifteen years of bracing himself for the crown, and then Sandro had unexpectedly returned and set him free. At least that was how Sandro had always viewed it; Leo hadn’t protested, and Sandro knew his brother hated the pretence of royal life as much as he had.

Yet he’d made a damn good heir to the throne in his absence, so much so that Sandro had wondered if Leo regretted his return.

He’d chosen not to ask.

Leo was a cabinet minister now, lived in a town house in Averne with his bride Alyse, and was working on passing a bill to provide broadband to the entire country, drag Maldinia into the twenty-first century.

‘What is it?’ Sandro heard the terse snap of his voice and sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. ‘Sorry. It’s been a long day.’

‘You met with Lady Liana?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is she suitable?’

Sandro laughed, the sound humourless and harsh. ‘Definitely.’

Leo stepped into the room and closed the door. ‘You don’t sound pleased.’

‘Did either of us really wish to marry for duty?’

‘Sometimes it can work out,’ Leo answered, a hint of a smile in his voice, on his face.

‘Sometimes,’ Sandro agreed. Things had certainly worked out for his brother. He was in love with his wife and free to pursue his own interests and ambitions as he chose.

‘I always thought Liana was nice enough,’ Leo offered carefully. ‘Although she seemed...sad to me, sometimes.’

‘Sad?’ Sandro shook his head even as he recalled the shadows in her eyes, the secrets he felt she’d been hiding. Yes, she had seemed sad. She’d also seemed determined, resolute, and as cold and hard as the diamond she’d worn around her neck. The diamond he’d lifted when he’d licked the skin underneath....

Remembering made lust beat along with his fury, and hell if that wasn’t an unwholesome mix. Sighing, he pushed away from the window. ‘I didn’t realise you knew her.’

Leo’s smile was wry. ‘Father considered an alliance between us, briefly.’

‘An alliance? You mean marriage?’ Sandro turned around to stare at his brother in surprise. Yet how could he really be shocked? Leo had been the future king. And hadn’t Liana already shown him just how much she wanted to be queen? For fifteen years—over half her life—he’d been essentially out of the picture. Of course she’d looked at other options.

As had his own brother, his own father.

‘So what happened?’ he asked Leo, and his brother’s smile was crooked and yet clearly full of happiness. Of joy.

‘Alyse happened.’

Of course. Sandro had seen the iconic photo himself, when it had been taken over six years ago. Leo had been twenty-four, Alyse eighteen. A single, simple kiss that had rocked the world and changed their lives for ever. And for the better now, thank God.

‘Although to be honest,’ Leo continued, ‘I don’t think Liana was ever really interested. It seemed as if she was humouring me, or maybe her parents, who wanted the match.’

Or hedging her bets, perhaps, Sandro thought, just in case the black-sheep heir made a reappearance. ‘I’m happy for you, you know,’ he said abruptly. ‘For you and Alyse.’

‘I know you are.’

Yet he heard a coolness in his brother’s voice, and he could guess at its source. For fifteen years they hadn’t spoken, seen each other, or been in touch in even the paltriest of ways. And this after their childhood, when they’d banded together, two young boys who had had only each other for companionship.

Sandro knew he needed to say something of all that had gone before—and all that hadn’t. The silence and separation that had endured for so long was, he knew, his fault. He was the older brother, and the one who had left. Yet the words he knew he should say burned in his chest and tangled in his throat. He couldn’t get them out. He didn’t know how.

This was what happened when you grew up in a family that had never shown love or emotion or anything real at all. You didn’t know how to be real yourself, as much as you craved it—and you feared that which you craved.

And yet Leo had found love. He was real with Alyse. Why, Sandro wondered in frustration, couldn’t he be the same?

And in the leaden weight of his heart he knew the answer. Because he was king...and he had a duty that precluded such things.